Three Dates Later
by EnchantedApril
Summary: Continuation of this series... following SecondDate and ThirdDate...It had been two weeks since his last date with Cameron and he’d almost reconvinced himself that he liked being alone with his misery. NEW CHAPTER Posted January 14th...COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

_Well, here we go again! The third in the ongoing "Date" series. As before, these do take current episodes into account, so beware of spoilers! Thank you all for your continued support!_**  
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**Three Dates Later**

** Prologue  
**

He was back to drinking full tumblers of scotch. Without ice. Ice just watered it down and took up valuable space that could be better filled by alcohol. It had been two weeks since his last date with Cameron and he'd almost reconvinced himself that he liked being alone with his misery.

That last date had been their sixth. She'd bought tickets to a rock concert in Newark. He could still picture her in tight jeans that flared around black thick-heeled boots and a red-patterned shirt that had clung to her curves. The tickets had been a surprise and he should have been grateful, but instead he'd been distracted. He'd been distracted since their fifth date. The date where they'd gone out to dinner and seen Stacy and Mark eating at the same restaurant.

The concert had been her way of getting them back on track, and her disappointment had been palpable as they'd driven back to Princeton in silence. A quick kiss, a murmured goodnight and she'd left him sitting in his car with the engine still running.

Six official dates, a handful of informal ones, and he'd known that there wouldn't be another. He'd breathed in the lingering scent of her perfume on the short drive to his own townhouse, and committed the feel of her lips and the taste of her mouth to memory.

She'd been in the office early the next day. Waiting for him with hair pulled back, clothes immaculate as always, but more makeup than usual to hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

"Uh-oh. Looks like I'm in trouble." He'd tried to show his nonchalance through sarcasm.

"No. Not in trouble," she'd said, and he'd been surprised by the even tone of her voice because there was clearly a thread of sadness in it and it had made him think she needed to cry but wouldn't let herself.

"So what is it then?" he'd asked, as they switched places; her rising gracefully from his chair and him dropping artlessly into it and thumping his cane on the floor for good measure.

"I think maybe we need to take a break until you can sort some things out for yourself."

"Oh please," he'd scoffed. "What, have you been talking to Wilson and Cuddy? They put you up to this?" And of course he knew that they hadn't. Knew that his own actions had pushed her to this.

"House," she'd said lowly, and he'd realized that after six dates they were still only using surnames. "I can't compete with her. I don't want to compete with her."

"With who? With Stacy? She's married, remember? Completely off the market."

Her eyes had closed briefly and he'd actually felt a stab of remorse.

"You were fine for a while, but now… it's like you're a different person when she's around, and even when she's not around I know you're thinking about her. You didn't cut into her husband's therapy session just for laughs. You haven't been snooping around her office for fun."

"You'd be surprised. All of those things have been very amusing," he'd said, without the slightest trace of humor.

Cameron had started pacing in front of his desk and he'd wanted to just grab her and shove her out the door. He hadn't wanted to hear anymore from her. The voices in his head gave him enough to listen to.

"Look," she'd continued to talk and he'd just sat there. "I don't know if she's the love of your life and you're never going to be over her or what. I don't know if you're hoping that she'll dump her husband and come running back to your arms. I don't know _you_ anymore, and I really thought I was beginning to. All I know is that I can't do this. I can't be the other woman cutting into a relationship that isn't even real."

"Cameron," he'd surprised himself by trying to placate her, but she'd just shaken her head and pressed her lips into a tight, thin line.

"No. Whatever's going on with you… you need to work through it… and I don't think I'm helping." The last part had been spoken very quietly and she'd dropped her gaze and thrust her hands into the pockets of her labcoat.

His hurt had instantly manifested itself in righteous anger. "So now what? You going to quit again?"

She'd flinched slightly but had looked up at him again with firm resolve a mask over her features. "No. I'm not going anywhere, and if you can make up your mind about what you want, maybe I'll even be willing to try again."

He hadn't said anything else, although she'd waited for some word, some sign that he understood and was going to try to fix things. After a minute, she'd turned and walked out of the office, and when she'd walked into the conference room half an hour later, with Foreman and Chase beside her, it had been like the last four weeks and six dates had never happened.

Which was why, on a Friday night, House sat at his piano with a full glass of scotch on the lid, a half-full bottle on the floor, and melancholy jazz fumbling from his fingertips.

The knock at his door barely roused him from his alcohol-enhanced introspection. He didn't, in fact, move, until the knock was accompanied by a voice.

"House, c'mon. I can hear you in there."

With a harsh sigh he rose from the piano, leaning heavily on his cane. In a split-second thought, he reflected that all drinkers should be issued canes. Wonderful for balance and a built in excuse for stumbling. He sloshed his drink as he picked it up and pivoted towards the door. Once there, he unlocked and opened it, then stepped away as Wilson entered.

"Good to see your habits haven't changed," Wilson said sarcastically.

"Since I don't remember inviting you over, this might be the place for you to get to the point," House replied, sitting down on the sofa and taking a long drink.

"Julie went to her mother's and I hate to eat alone." That was a lie. He actually enjoyed his quiet time, but with House on this newest downward spiral he felt he owed it to the man to try to pull him back. "I brought food."

"Why is it that ninety-nine percent of the meals we share consist of Chinese food?" House muttered, clearing off space on the coffee table as he noted the distinct label on the bag Wilson was carrying.

"Fast, easy and it doesn't require plates?"

"Yeah, all of those."

Glad that he wasn't being tossed out, Wilson sat down and started opening the white cardboard containers, handing House the lo mein and a fork. He was pretty sure he was too far gone to handle chopsticks. For a few minutes they just ate, with Wilson eyeing House every once in a while as if looking for an opening.

"Is this where you start analyzing me and pointing me in a healthier direction?" House beat him to the punch, as usual.

"Now that you mention it--"

"Don't bother. I'm fine."

"Right. Fine. This is your second trip down the self-pity track. Any chance you're going to hop off any time soon and stop acting like an ass?"

"Says the man working his way through his third marriage and spending inordinate amounts of time scrutinizing his friend's life," House spat out in reply.

"I'm trying to help you, damnit."

"Well stop trying."

"Fine. I guess you can screw up your life perfectly well on your own. You've done it before, after all." Wilson seemed surprised at the amount of frustrated venom in his words, but House looked merely resigned.

"At least I'm consistent."

"House…" Wilson trailed off, not knowing what to say, but obviously reluctant to leave things as they were.

"Just leave it." The words were hard and brooked no compromise.

Wilson went back to eating, and House took another drink.

They stayed like that for another hour, with House eventually turning on the football game. He knew that if he didn't distract Wilson with sports then eventually the conversation would start back up again, and he really wasn't in the mood. He hadn't been in the mood before Wilson's arrival, and Chinese food and another drink hadn't changed his mind.

The game entered half-time and Wilson gathered up the half-empty boxes and dirty utensils and took them to the kitchen. When he returned to the living room he stood in the doorway for a minute, staring at House as if willing him to open up and say something.

"What?" House snapped.

Wilson sighed. "Nothing. This game's over already. Boston's beating the hell out of them," he observed, taking a few steps and glancing at the television. "I'm gonna call it a night."

"Fine." House dismissively waved his hand towards the door.

"You know--"

"You just want to help. I get it. I told you I don't need any."

"Yeah, well, that's what you say now," Wilson said as he picked up his coat. "But Stacy's married and unless you want her to leave her husband, I'm not sure what you expect from her. Meanwhile, Cameron's not going to wait around forever."

"She's waited this long," House muttered.

"Eventually, she'll give up. Maybe that's what you want."

"Maybe." House's eyes flickered briefly to Wilson's before snapping back to the television screen.

Wilson just shook his head and shrugged into his coat. "Lunch tomorrow?" he asked, as if they hadn't practically been fighting.

"Yeah, sure. Pick me up." He already had a feeling that he wouldn't be in the mood to drive.

"Try to at least change your clothes between now and then."

House shot him a sarcastic look. "Yes, Mom. I'll even clean my room."

"Good night, House," was all Wilson said and then he left, the sound of his car disturbing the silent night a minute later.

Good. House poured himself another drink. Now he could get back to being bitter and fatalistic.


	2. Chapter 1

_Sorry it's been a bit of a wait for this chapter! "The Babysitter" was distracting me and I was also waiting to see how recent episodes played out. Hopefully it is worth the wait. I know it's slow-moving, but I think that adds to the realism. Let me know! Comments and criticism most welcome._**  
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**Chapter 1**

Saturday morning brought with it bleary eyes and a headache, and House went through his morning routine mechanically. Pain, pills, and after some blatant self-pity, a hot shower. All the while his thoughts were still occupied with what had been circling his mind prior to Wilson's unannounced visit.

He thought again of that seemingly selfless act of Cameron's in his office. He wasn't stupid; he knew what Cameron's ploy had been designed to do. She had wanted him to come back begging. Had wanted him to lay prostrate before her, insist that whatever he'd had with Stacy was long over, that his dreams and his waking thoughts were all filled by her, instead.

He had always been better off alone. It was a tried and true fact. So how could he have been so deluded into thinking that dating Allison Cameron would have brought anything other than misery?

He paused in the middle of pulling on his shirt. Narrowing his eyes in self-disgust, he gave a little sigh and continued to dress. He was lying to himself about the motivations of one of the most honest women he'd ever met. Pathetic. Cameron didn't have angles. She didn't work through subterfuge or mind games. He at least owed it to her to think of her as she was and not as his conscience wanted her to be in order to sleep through the night.

It was wrong. She hadn't been the problem. What they'd had together had actually been working for him. He'd liked it, even though he didn't outright admit it. He was fairly certain that she'd liked it, given the way she had tangled her hands in his hair when they'd kissed after their fourth date.

No. It definitely hadn't been her. It had been him. And Stacy. Or rather, the idea of Stacy.

As calculating as he was, House had completely neglected to consider the ramifications of seeing Stacy outside of the hospital. Hell, Princeton was a big city; the odds that he would end up at the same restaurant as she would be virtually none, and yet, that was precisely what had happened. When he saw Stacy with Mark at Sangiovese and his mind just shut down. Before, his thoughts were occupied with work and games and soaps and Cameron. Now there was only Stacy.

Cameron had tried. Under normal circumstances he would have enjoyed the concert, and especially her company, but his mind had been focused on Stacy. Stacy the unattainable.

House sat at the foot of his bed and began pulling on his Shox.

Did he still love her or was she simply a conquest in his mind? To take control of the relationship between the two of them away from her, as she had taken control away from him so many years ago? Or was there another question there? The question about why things had ended, and whose fault it had really been, and was he any different now than he had been five years ago.

It wasn't the first time he'd asked himself those questions. He just never had any answers. This time was no different.

When she'd first arrived, begging her to help with her husband, he'd felt blindsided, and unprepared for the feelings that came along with seeing her again. Seeing her supposedly happily married. Then, in the background, had come Cameron's words and actions, freeing him from something they'd never even had, but at the same time forcing him to realize that he was never going to have anything with Stacy either.

He'd told himself that asking Cameron on that second date had been as much a test for himself as anything else. He could move on, dammit. He could have the most attractive woman in the hospital, and Stacy could sit in on her wheel-chair bound husband's therapy sessions and know that he had moved on from her. He hadn't quite expected to enjoy it. He hadn't expected to feel things he'd carefully compartmentalized and shut away along with his dreams of walking and running. He'd enjoyed himself and Stacy had slipped down to second place in his thoughts, kept there by his still-bitter need to antagonize her.

That had changed after that fifth date when he'd seen her eating with Mark in their old favorite restaurant, in their old favorite booth. They'd never gone there again after his infarction; he hadn't wanted to go anywhere. She'd had to drag him to physical therapy, and to hell with psychiatric therapy. He'd felt righteous and justified in his anger. He still felt that way, but now he wondered what would have happened if not for the infarction. Would they still be together or would he have found some other reason to push her away? What kind of man was he, really? Had he changed at all?

Maybe the need to know that was the largest part of what drove him now, although he told Wilson that it was all about Stacy and needing to know if she still loved him. Yes, he needed to know that, needed to know if those feelings had been real and if they still existed. He couldn't lie to himself. He still loved her, but when he tried to imagine a perfect world where Mark and Cameron didn't exist, he couldn't picture himself with her. Oh, he could picture the sex. That was easy. He had plenty of past experience to draw on, and the Playboy channel for more inspiration. But when he thought of them in quiet times, going places together, eating dinner, watching television… he couldn't quite put her into the blank space beside him… a space that Cameron had so recently occupied. The question of love was there, but there was much more to it than that. He needed to know what she thought about him so that he would know what he should think about himself.

Stacy seemed to consume him in a way that little had. She had somehow managed to lodge herself into his thoughts so completely that everything else was secondary. So completely that he had broken doctor-patient confidentiality and read her file from the hospital therapist. He wanted to get into her head as undeniably as she'd gotten into his. When he accomplished that, then he could decide his course of action. He could either take her or exorcise her completely. Either way, he knew that he would have to do it alone.

* * *

What a difference a day makes. The phrase was trite, perhaps because it was so often true. In fact, the difference in question took place over a week, but the feeling was the same. It had been a week of long-overdue discussions and pained looks; of pretending not to care while caring far too much; of bitter arguments and harsh realizations. House sat in his desk chair thinking about it all, and trying to let the throbbing pain in his leg numb him to all other pain. Unfortunately that only worked when the competing pain was also physical.

It was Friday morning, ten a.m., and House's last day as leader of his merry band of misfits. Foreman would be taking over on Monday, and while House was more than a little pissed off about that, surprisingly it wasn't at the top of his list of concerns. In fact he had a feeling he would have a good time annoying Foreman for a month. He'd been through worse in his medical career.

If he craned his neck, House could just barely see Chase and Foreman in the next room, talking and drinking coffee. The one remaining member of his team had called in sick. Cameron, the woman who hadn't taken a sick day since she'd been hired, and who had only taken a week of vacation when she was allotted three, had called in sick.

Of course she hadn't called him.

No, Cuddy had passed the information along as he'd stalked through the clinic pretending to be invisible. House could still see the look on her face. She'd actually looked sympathetic. As if she knew that there was something going on beyond a simple health scare, and as if she hadn't just recently handed the keys to his kingdom over to one of his court jesters. House clenched his jaw in memory of that look. She had no right to look sympathetic. And she had no reason to look sympathetic. He was fine. Everything was fine.

Right.

At least Chase was in; that probably meant that Cameron hadn't slept with him again.

Fuck.

It wasn't as if he had any claim on her. He'd as good as thrown her away. He hadn't even tried to talk to her after she'd laid herself open to him, telling him what she needed and what he needed to do if he wanted things to continue developing between them. He'd acted as if there had never been anything there to begin with. Distance was so much easier than actually dealing. He hadn't even so much as given her a supportive pat on the back as she'd walked through two days like a zombie. One in stiff-upper-lip shock and one in strung-out despair. Ignoring her was so much easier than admitting anything. So much easier than stopping to think that a future he'd spent time imagining could be over already. Concentrating on a damn sick rat was infinitely preferable to thinking about a terminally ill woman. A woman he had been busy feigning disinterest in. A woman he'd brushed off in favor of blind pursuit of the diagnosis of a long-dead relationship.

No wonder she'd slept with the fucking wombat.

And now she was out sick. A reaction to her new meds, or a reaction to his disgustingly selfish attitude? House wasn't sure which he'd prefer.

Long minutes passed with him hiding behind a patient's file. Thankfully people seemed to have decided to stay healthy at least for one day. There were no pages about new patients and no threats to revoke his privileges if he didn't report to the clinic. Cuddy had really stabbed herself in the foot by putting Foreman in charge. It certainly gave House much less incentive to stay on his best behavior… not that he ever did anyway.

He was tired of thinking and pulled out his gameboy and his iPod. Dual sensory overload was bound to prevent his mind from running in circles. He had just finished level seven of Metroid when a shadow fell over his desk. Wilson's shadow. He looked up and spared part of his attention for the man, even going so far as to turn down the volume.

"Coffee?"

Coffee. That was Wilson's code word for 'Wanna talk about it?'

"No. I'm fine," House replied, then held up his game, "and I'm on a roll."

"I'll buy. I'll even spring for a danish." More code, this time for 'C'mon. I'm just going to keep badgering you until you come.'

House sighed and shoved the gameboy into his desk. "Fine. But I'm getting the most expensive one they have."

"I figured as much."

They walked to the cafeteria in silence and House could only assume that Wilson was looking for an opportunity to make his opening gambit. House's current close-mouthed behavior wasn't giving him much to work with. Which was, of course, the point. They got their coffees, and pastries, with House selecting the plate-sized coffee-roll, and were heading back towards the elevator and they still hadn't said more than five words to each other.

Wilson rolled his eyes. If he let them get to the elevator he would have just wasted five dollars and fifty cents.

"I noticed Cameron's out today," he practically blurted out, apropos to nothing. "Must be her medication. She said the side-effects were bothering her."

The two men stepped onto the elevator and House glanced at Wilson out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah. Sick. How do you know so much about her, anyway?" House said, trying to keep the sarcasm up and the bitterness down.

"We've… talked," Wilson hedged, concentrating on his coffee. When he looked up, House was staring at him. "Don't look at me that way. Look in the mirror if you want to see the man who dumped her, and look at Chase if you want to see the guy who took advantage of her. I'm just the poor slob she talks to because no one else ever seems to listen."

House's gaze narrowed to a piercing stare that broke off as abruptly as it formed. "I listened," he muttered angrily.

"Yeah. Right. Was that before or after you stole Stacy's therapy notes? Maybe it was in between trips to her house and administering medical treatment to a rat."

"His _name_, is _Steve_."

Wilson shook his head and a short burst of derisive laughter sputtered out. "Sorry. I forgot that he's your new obsession. I hope you find the relationship fulfilling." Wilson actually stared House down. It was something he'd rarely had the opportunity to do. "You know, usually I feel bad for you. I figure you just don't know what the hell you're doing when it comes to people. But right now? You knew exactly what you were doing. You've dug this hole for yourself and you deserve to have it collapse around you. You know who doesn't deserve that? Dr. Cameron. The only thing she did was believe that you could actually turn into some semblance of a normal human being."

"Yeah, and who asked her to believe that?" House spit out. The last thing he needed was little Jiminy Wilson perching on his shoulder and making him feel guilty. "She rolled the dice and lost. Not my responsibility."

"House…" Wilson tried to back off but it was too late.

"Don't you have someone upstairs dying who is in desperate need of your soothing hand?"

Any words Wilson might have said died on his tongue, and he pressed his lips together, resigned. The elevator opened and House stepped out.

* * *

The shortening days meant that by four-thirty, House's office was completely shrouded in darkness save for the pale yellow light emanating from the stand-up lamp in the corner. House was sitting at his desk and the light didn't reach him. Two hours later he was still there with his iPod on and his head lolled against the back of the chair. It might have seemed that he'd fallen asleep, but close examination showed that his eyes were open and staring off into the middle-distance.

He was still at the hospital because he had no where better to be. That fact rarely bothered him, but tonight it did.

Damn Wilson.

In the hallway, fast moving footsteps neared and slowed. House kept his eyes fixed on an indeterminate spot on the wall.

"Greg?"

Well, this was a switch. Usually he was the one stalking her.

"Shouldn't you be home with your loving husband?"

"Yes, I probably should be. I had some paperwork to finish up."

"Someone else suing me?"

"Not this time," Stacy's expression held something approaching a wry grin as she stepped inside the office.

"Well, that's good. Wouldn't want to completely tap out that special fund Cuddy has for my legal fees. I'm gonna try to convince her to give the remainder to me as a Christmas bonus. Think she'll go for it?"

"I don't know. Probably won't be worth your effort though. I think there's only about a buck-fifty left in it."

"Good thing you'll work for me pro bono then." House finally swiveled around and looked at the woman who had betrayed him years ago and who still managed hold sway over his life.

Stacy moved across the room with unmistakable grace and lowered herself into House's easy-chair in one fluid motion. She was surrounded by light and he stared at her from the dark.

"For what it's worth," she said, "I'm sorry about the suspension."

House shrugged. "Not the first time and it won't be the last. Anyway, I'll have fun riding Foreman's ass."

A rich, throaty laugh was her response. "I'm sure you will."

"What are you doing here?" Stacy's laugh had cut through whatever this casual conversation had been. It was the same laugh she'd always had. A laugh he'd once enjoyed hearing. Now it hurt his ears. His eyes were hard and piercing and he leaned forward enough for the light to glint off of them.

"I don't know," she replied honestly. "I guess I just wanted to check on you."

"Thanks, but I don't think that's your job."

"Old habits die hard."

He scoffed and leaned back again.

"Greg, I'm not going to be here forever, and I don't want to leave thinking I've hurt you again."

A roll of his eyes and his chair squeaked as he rocked back and forth. "What happened to all that venom you had a few days ago?"

"I calmed down. I told you it hasn't been all bad."

"Right. It just hasn't been good enough for you to admit you'd prefer to be with me than with Marky-Mark."

"Is that really what you want to hear? You want me to leave Mark and rush into your arms declaring that I never stopped loving you?"

"That'd be a start."

"And then what?"

He was silent as he stared at her across the chasm of his desk. "Then I find out what went wrong the first time around," he said finally.

Stacy sighed and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "You mean besides me betraying you?"

"Yeah. Besides that," he said snappily.

"We were too alike, Greg. All hard edges and sharp tongues. I blamed you for making me lonely, but I wasn't any better. We were good for a while, but even without your infarction, you know it wouldn't have lasted. It would have blown up spectacularly, just the way it started except with lots of shouting instead of lots of sex."

One of House's eyebrows arched upwards in a lecherous sneer before smoothing out as the truthfulness of Stacy's words struck home. He'd been searching for a diagnosis, a reason for their terminal relationship status, and although he'd already known the diagnosis he hadn't admitted it. It had seemed safer to just assume it was something he'd done. Some flaw that made him incapable of carrying on a relationship. Such a flaw would then preclude him from getting involved again. Which would eliminate the chance that he would ever feel that chest-crushing defeat when he looked around a living room that looked as if a very selective burglar had passed through.

"What are you still doing here, Greg?" Stacy asked softly, drawing House back from his contemplation.

"I'm comfortable," he quipped.

"You wouldn't be more comfortable at home… or with someone?"

House's head shot up at those words and his stare latched onto Stacy's dark eyes.

"I'm not blind, Greg. I've seen how you two were looking at each other a few weeks ago. What happened?"

"None of your damn business."

"I'll take a guess and say she didn't appreciate you obsessing over me."

"I wasn't obsessing. I was irritating. Big difference," he snarked.

"No hard edges with her, Greg."

House huffed out a breath of air and rolled his eyes. "You'd be surprised," he said, then lowered his chin to his chest thinking about the little-known side of Cameron that he was privy to.

"Complex doesn't equal hard."

"Whatever." He was ready for this conversation to end. He didn't need dating advice from his ex.

Stacy sensed that she was about to overstay her welcome, and rose from her chair. That was one good thing about knowing House so well. She could still read him as well as ever.

"Don't stay here all night."

"I'll be home by curfew," House said with his usual sarcasm.

Stacy didn't reply, she just glided out of the room as smoothly as she'd entered it, shoes clicking lightly on the floor and echoing in the otherwise quiet hallway.

House stared at the pool of light where she'd been sitting, and then at the darkened conference room next door. He could see the dim outline of Cameron's bright white lab-coat hanging on the rack and wondered what she was doing and if she was really sick or just sick of him. He shoved his iPod in his pocket and rose stiffly to his feet, leaning more heavily on his cane than usual after hours spent in the same position. He didn't know where he was going, but it was time to leave.


	3. Chapter 2

I'm still a little unsure about the end of this part so I'm eager to hear what people think about it. Hopefully there's still some interest in it!

**Chapter 2**

Cameron had the television on but she wasn't watching it. Lately she just liked having it on to keep her company. She'd even moved it from her bedroom to the living room. It sat in the corner on an overturned fruit box she'd had since college and had never thrown away. She refused to buy an actual television stand or a bigger television; convincing herself that soon she'd take it back to the bedroom.

At the moment, the voices on-screen were punctuated by the sound of her feet striking rubber in a measured cadence. She had the treadmill set on a thirty-minute workout and was half done. She knew she wouldn't finish. She hadn't been able to run more than twenty minutes since two days after starting her anti-viral medications. They made her heart race without any exertion at all, and running left her light-headed and somewhat nauseated, but she kept doing it anyway.

Outside the weather had turned and a mix of rain and sleet struck her windows with heavy, wet slaps. Another sound to keep her from thinking. Another sound to distract her from her inner voice.

It wasn't enough.

She'd felt strong when she'd confronted House. Disheartened, but strong. She'd laid her cards on the table and stood up for herself and what she needed. It would have been self-destructive insanity to allow things to continue with him still mourning Stacy while going through the motions of a relationship with her. She'd been smart to tell him that he needed to make a decision. She'd just thought that things would have gone differently in the time since that day.

And she wished that she could just blame him, but now she was just as much to blame for the near suffocating fear and depression that struck at random times and sucked the breath from her lungs. If only it had stopped with the depression, but she'd managed to make things worse without any help from House. She'd tried blaming Kalvin for pushing her, but the truth was that she'd had one foot over the edge already.

Her whole youth had been about making herself as quiet, small and helpful as possible and then in adulthood that had changed into being empathetic and giving. She'd gone through brief periods of regret, but none so deep as the one that followed her HIV exposure and House and his subsequently cruel behavior towards her. Kalvin had only voiced something she'd feared all along: that she had never really lived.

The drugs had been a horrible mistake but she had just wanted to feel something -- anything -- that would make her feel alive. Something that would drown out the voices that told her she really hadn't amounted to anything despite the capital letters that followed her name.

House wouldn't come. His actions during the day had made it clear that she couldn't depend on him for support. Foreman would have tucked her into bed and told her to sleep it off. Wilson… even his numerous affairs wouldn't extend to sleeping with his best friend's not-quite-girlfriend. She had almost no one else. Her few other friends would make sympathetic noises and tell her that things would be all right, but that wasn't what she'd needed. She had known, even as she was making the call, that Chase wouldn't turn her down. That he would fuck her and kiss her and make her feel. She had known, even as she was making the call, that she would live to regret it, but she had still dialed his number. Consequences and risks and her usually ever-present personal and professional credo of 'do no harm' had all been blotted out by ragged emotions and a dangerous dose of crystal meth.

The next morning, House had almost tried to be sympathetic in the elevator, but it had been too late for sympathy and she was instead ashamed to have him look at her. She was also angry at him for not being the one to knock on her door without being called. She hadn't expected House to find out so soon, but then realized that had been even more stupidity on her part. Of course he would know. Of course he wouldn't keep it a secret. That wasn't his style, especially when he was hurt, and he had been hurt. She'd seen that injured look in his eye even as he was cutting her down.

They hadn't spoken since then. He'd barely looked at her, and as angry as she tried to make herself at him, she couldn't really blame him. She wasn't in the mood to face anyone at all. There was no doubt that this would change the whole team dynamic, to say nothing of her non-relationship with House. Chase had tried to make things better, as if more drugs and a few comforting words could erase what had happened. She'd wanted to be mad at him but there was no point. He'd done exactly what she'd wanted him to do, no matter her regrets after the fact. What was it she'd said to House once? _Men should grow up._ And his reply? _Not gonna happen._

Spots started appearing in front of her eyes, and Cameron slowed her pace down to a walk and then got off the treadmill. Eighteen minutes. She pressed one hand against her chest and leaned against the wall, sliding down it until she was sitting with her knees tucked up and her forehead resting on them. At least it was one minute more than yesterday.

She forced herself to her feet and half-stumbled to her room, needing a shower but just wanting to sleep. The think sheen of sweat that coated her bare arms was making her shiver and she rummaged through the basket of clean clothes that sat at the foot of her bed. There. A warm sweatshirt. Cozy and soft and much too large for her.She slipped it over her head and crawled onto her bed. Pressing her face into the pillow, one part of her mind tried to forget who had given her the shirt, while the rest insisted on clinging tenaciously to the hope that things could somehow get back to the relative happiness of their bizarre little courtship.

* * *

House knew where he was going. What he didn't know was why. He thought that the chances that she would let him past the door hovered somewhere around three percent. The fact that he was even making the attempt said more than he wanted to contemplate about his feelings. Effort was generally something he left to the other person in any relationship he was in, and he didn't even know if what he and Cameron had qualified as any kind of 'ship' at all.

If she tried to shut the door in his face, he would just claim he'd come over to drop off a prescription. The bottle rattling in his pocket made that the truth at least. Again, he wondered if she'd stayed home because she wasn't feeling well or because she just wanted to avoid him. The pills could only fix one of those scenarios.

He reached over and turned up the stereo until the music blocked out even the sound of rubber against asphalt. He wanted it to purge him of his thoughts as well but it wasn't having the desired effect. He was still feeling the unfamiliar pangs of regret.

When he tried to turn that regret around and make it all about Stacy he was only half-successful. Yes, he could say that he just regretted that she'd returned, and he did, but he was also angry about his own actions and that was something he always said he'd never be. He would allow himself to be angry about ultimately being wrong, but never about acting badly. Now he had a list of actions he wished he could take back and others he wished he could perform.

High on the list were virtually every word he'd spoken to Cameron on the day she'd been exposed to the HIV tainted blood.

When he'd gotten the news from Foreman, his initial reaction had been a blank stare even as his stomach rolled. That uncomfortable feeling obviously had to go and so he'd pushed it down and covered it with the lingering anger he felt at her for distancing herself while he dealt with Stacy. Concern and compassion were so much harder to show than sarcasm and apathy. He'd even tossed in some extra cruelty just to cover himself.

He wondered if he'd ever forget the look in her eyes when she'd walked into his office dressed in stiff pink scrubs, with her hair pulled back and her expression one of fear battling strength. He'd taken that look and thrown it back in her face. Repeatedly. And she hadn't even flinched. It was as if she had expected it.

He'd actually felt guilty when he'd cornered her on the elevator the next morning. He'd almost reached out to her. Almost. But almost didn't count, especially not in matters of the heart. Then he'd added one plus one and arrived at two copulating ducklings and the guilt had deepened for an instant before being squashed by snide innuendo and banter designed to make her know how much he didn't care. The only problem there was that he did.

No. There was no way she was going to open her door.

* * *

The weather had changed to straight snow and it fell lightly and silently on the streets of Princeton. Curled in the middle of her bed, Cameron noticed the difference - the haunting silence that followed the not comforting, but at least steady, pattering of rain on roof and window. The nausea had passed and she knew she needed to get up and eat something. She'd gotten away with calling in sick once, but House wouldn't put up with it for long. He'd send Foreman over to drag her into work. Or maybe Chase.

Rolling over, she swung her legs off the bed and then rested her elbows on her knees, pausing while her head stopped spinning. The knocking sound coming from her living room brought all of her senses back to center. She knew that knock.

Strong slender fingers clutched the edge of the mattress. She really didn't want to answer the door, but the knocking grew a bit louder and faster. It wouldn't be long before her neighbors became annoyed and started wandering out to see what the fuss was all about. Then House would start spinning some idiotic story, and before long the landlord would be there with a key and an admonishment not to scare the nice doctor. She'd seen him put on the kindly cripple act before, and he did it remarkably well.

With a sigh, she pushed herself off the bed and walked out of the bedroom. It started as more of a shuffling gait, but gained strength and purpose as she approached the door. She wouldn't let him see her weak.

A flick of the chain and a turn of the knob and she pulled the door open, catching House in mid-knock. He looked startled and lowered his cane slowly, leaning on it a bit more than usual.

"You really should have called," she said, voice dull and indifferent.

The muscle in House's jaw worked itself tighter while he bit the inside of his mouth and tried to keep his wandering eyes focused on her face. He fumbled around in his pocket and extracted a bottle, holding it out and rattling the contents for effect.

"I hear you aren't feeling well. These should help," he said, hand hanging in mid-air when she didn't reach out to take them.

"You didn't need to drive over--"

"You gonna take them?" House interrupted, irritability creeping into his tone.

Cameron's chest moved with her sigh, and she gave in and took the pills.

House lost the battle to keep his blue eyes fixed on hers and let them drift to the floor, then his shoes. Her shoes. Her sweatshirt. He gripped his cane tighter. "They're good at counteracting most of the side-effects you're having."

"You don't even know what they are," Cameron maintained.

"I can make an educated guess," he replied, looking up at the slight, almost imperceptible waver in her voice. "You know that the chances--"

"Are extremely low. Yes, I know," she cut him off, her words clipped and sounding stronger than the body delivering them. "Why are you really here?"

"I got tired of staring at my rat."

"So I rank slightly higher than a rodent. Good to know."

House looked perplexed and that expression changed to a mild scowl. "Are we going to keep talking in the hallway, or are you going to invite me in?"

Cameron didn't move, she just looked at him, attempting to keep her expression impassive.

"Or is this the end of the conversation?" House continued, ending on a note that was more statement than question.

The cool, hard edges of Cameron's expression softened slightly under House's sharp blue gaze. She let out her breath in a rush of exasperation and walked away from the door, turning her back and leaving it to him to decide if he was going to cross the threshold. It was all the invitation she was willing to give, and House accepted it and limped forward, cane thudding hard against the floor. He shut the door and followed her to the sofa.

She didn't sit down, but he did, and she stared at him for a moment before tightening the line of her mouth and perching on the far end of the sofa. She wouldn't have sat down at all, but his eyes had spoken gently to her and it showed more humanity than she'd seen from him in a month.

"So how are you feeling?" he resorted to medicine, so much more familiar than emotions.

"I hope you didn't come here just to ask me that."

He looked at her for a second, face frozen, before letting his head shake and his shoulders slump. "No."

"Then what? A few weeks ago, I thought that maybe…" she let her shrug fill in the blanks. "But now…"

"I'm done with Stacy," he said abruptly.

That made her sit up straighter and she peered at him, judging his honesty. "For now, maybe," she decided.

"For good."

A sad little smile appeared on Cameron's face and was gone by the time she raised her eyes to his. "I could have dealt with you being snide. I could have dealt with you getting Stacy out of your system. Hell, if you'd slept with her, that would just make us even," she said, a thread of bitter self-recrimination creeping into her voice. "But you had to be cruel and hateful too." Her brows furrowed in a sort of puzzled hopelessness. "Did you have to be nasty to me just to make yourself feel better about throwing me away?"

"I didn't-" House's voice started out as a shout that made Cameron flinch, and he released a breath and gripped his cane with both hands. "I didn't throw you away. You told me I needed to make up my mind."

"And now you say that you have, but that doesn't answer my question."

"I don't know," he said, bluntly. "I know that Stacy isn't really what I want. She's just a symbol of the past that I never got over."

"Are you over it now?" she asked, not quite gently, but softly.

House squirmed under her scrutiny and leaned back, resisting the urge to reach into his pocket and pull out his own pills. "As much as I can be," he said, the words were pulled out slowly. " I think we've gone over the many layers of fucked up that comprise my character. I've scratched through a few of them."

Cameron nodded. "Is this where I'm supposed to apologize for-"

House's head shot up. "No," he said sharply. "Frankly it would be better if we didn't talk about that at all."

Her teeth tugged at her lower lip. Was she supposed to be ashamed or grateful?

"Let's both just promise not to repeat our mistakes." It was as close to an apology as House was ever likely to give, and simultaneously absolved her of any guilt.

"Right," Cameron responded, not exactly sure how she felt about that.

"So…" House said awkwardly.

"So," she repeated. "Is this how this goes? Now we're back together? If we were ever together in the first place?"

"Works for me."

The sharp, short laugh from Cameron was unexpected.

"What?"

"I don't know if it works for _me_ right now," she answered, stomach twisting as she spoke. She was probably pushing away the one thing she wanted to hold onto more than anything at that moment, but she just couldn't set herself up for any more pain. She had enough to deal with already.

"What, you suddenly lose interest?" he prodded.

She looked at him, finally letting all of the hopelessness and pain show on her face. "You know that isn't it."

House swallowed, his teeth clenched. That look was worse than the one she'd worn along with those pink scrubs. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, the words pushed from some deep cavern in his chest.

"Yes you are," she said with a careless shrug. "It's what you do. It's who you are. You can't help it, and most of the time I can deal with it. I can deal with it because I know you don't really mean it."

She knew him too well. "You're right. I don't."

Slight nod and a quick breath. "It's just… right now… I can't be hurt like that."

House hated fighting losing battles. They made him bitter and antagonistic, and that wasn't what he wanted at the moment. "Fine," he said, louder than he'd intended. "I'll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing." He used his cane to hoist himself to his feet and rapidly moved to the door.

"Please don't leave like this," Cameron said, as she followed him.

"Like what? I'm getting used to being turned down by women. I may make it a new career." He reached out a tugged on the sleeve of her sweater. He'd have to tell his mother that it was getting some use. "Mine." It was a random comment, just thrown out there.

"You gave it to me," Cameron tugged her arm back and hugged herself.

"Yeah. I gave you a few things I hadn't intended to."

Cameron looked into his face, seeing an unfamiliar pain there. A longing and need and honesty that hadn't been visible before. It changed her mind when none of his words had been able to and she suddenly cast about for some reason to keep him from leaving.

"It's snowing too hard now. You should wait until it stops."

"It's going to snow all night."

"Stay."

"Is this how you dump all your boyfriends?"

Her face twisted into a grimace. "Let's not use that word."

"Right. Because we're both much too mature for that," he said sarcastically.

"Just stay. Stay the night. Just to sleep." She wouldn't tell him that if nothing else she wanted the memory of him in her bed. "We'll figure everything else out later."

"Aren't you afraid of getting hurt?"

"Yes," she said simply. "Stay."

House looked down into her face for a long time. An eternity of seconds. With unexpected gentleness he reached out and touched her cheek.

"You'd better not hog all the blankets."

"You'd better not kick." It was said with the barest hint of a sarcastic smile and House caught it and rolled his eyes. Then he hung his coat up and followed her into the kitchen. He was suddenly hungry and there would be time enough for pillow talk later.


	4. Chapter 3

_Apologies for the short chapter... the next one will likely be the last and then I will be working on the sequel to Saints and Saviors. Let me know if you still find this to be in-character and realistic. All comments and criticism are welcome and encouraged!_

**Chapter 3**

Pain woke Gregory House. Warmth reminded him that he wasn't in his own bed.

He blinked groggily a few times and then experimentally tried moving. He was on his back and Cameron lay on her side right next to him, but not quite touching except for her forehead which was pressed against his shoulder. His movement caused Cameron to merely sigh and move her head back to her own pillow. He stifled a groan and reached over the side of the bed, finding his crumpled jeans lying on the floor. A quick shake revealed the dull rattle of pills and he dug in the pockets until he found them. Two pills later, he turned back around to face Cameron.

Whether from physical or emotional exhaustion, they had both fallen quickly asleep the night before. There had been only minimal awkwardness, with Cameron changing in the bathroom while House stripped down to his shorts and t-shirt before climbing under the covers. Cameron had turned off the bedroom light as she entered the room and had made her way to the bed in the dark. By common consent they had kept mainly to their own sides. The warmth generated between them had been comfort enough.

Cameron was still sleeping and he was surprised that he didn't feel the desire to make some obnoxious noise or shake her awake. Actually, that wasn't quite true. The urge was there, like an annoying bug, poking and prodding at him to live up to his reputation. The surprise came from the fact that he wasn't giving in to the urge.

Her long lashes fluttered slightly against too-pale cheeks and in the dim grey light of morning. House wondered why he hadn't noticed the dark bags under her eyes. Of course, if he was perfectly honest with himself, he'd admit that he'd avoided looking at her for the past two weeks. Now he was staring at her and feeling more and more out of place by the moment. What had felt peaceful and innately right had turned wrong as the sun rose, even though House couldn't explain exactly why that was.

In his younger years, with any other woman he would have snuck out of the bed, grabbed his clothes and run. There were three problems with that scenario now. Cameron wasn't any other woman, he couldn't run, and he hadn't done his equivalent of groveling just to put them right back where they'd been a week ago.

And so he stayed still and watched Cameron sleep as the Vicodin worked its magic on his leg. The sun rose behind a thin veil of clouds and the digital clock blinked off the minutes. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. House was getting twitchy and had just taken in a breath in preparation for an extremely fake but loud cough, when Cameron shifted and her eyes slid open.

She stared at him for a minute with her dark brows pulled together and her eyes searching his face as if she expected him to vanish at any given moment.

"Yeah, I'm really here," House said, and the sardonic tone of his voice proved it.

A tight little smile curled Cameron's lips and her face relaxed slightly. "Ah. Wasn't sure for a minute there."

"Yeah, last night wasn't a dream either. You completely forgave me for everything and promised sex in the near future." Feelings of awkwardness only made House more brazen in his behavior in order to cover them.

"Funny, I don't remember it that way," Cameron replied, cutting through House's sarcasm to find the truth beneath it.

"Close enough. You asked me to stay." Acting the misanthropic bastard was considerably harder when half-naked and in bed with a terminally sincere woman, and his voice lowered and lost its edge.

"I didn't want either of us to be alone."

"Mission accomplished. What now?"

She shrugged, as much at a loss as he was. "I wasn't expecting you to show up at my door last night, and I wasn't expecting you to stay."

"Neither was I."

They grew quiet and while Cameron concentrated on the 400 thread count sheets, House contemplating popping another Vicodin just for the hell of it.

"I should go," House said after a silence that lasted too long.

They were the words Cameron had been expecting since she'd opened her eyes. "I could make coffee," she offered.

"We're not at the hospital; you don't have to get ahead by making the best coffee," he replied, part truth, part sarcasm.

"I don't have to do it there either," she retorted.

"Right. You do it because you want to."

Her eyes narrowed and bored into his. "That's right. I usually do."

He had no quick and easy response. Lying there, with her slim body inches away, her sleep-tousled hair falling over her shoulders and her eyes seeing straight through him, he felt uncomfortably exposed. His ever-present sarcasm had abandoned him. This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to get involved in the first place. This was exactly what he'd known he would have to push through.

"Getting ready to bolt?" Cameron asked softly, reading the restless look on his face.

"No," he replied stubbornly.

"Then I'll go make that coffee." She got out of the bed and quickly grabbed her robe from the chair, wrapping it around her as if flannel was a substitute for armor.

Her footsteps were almost silent, but House strained to hear them as he lay propped up in the bed, trying to decide what the hell he should do. Getting dressed seemed a good first step and he shoved long legs into jeans and long arms into cotton, letting his shirt hang open and feeling part boy and part old man. How many more chances at happiness would he get in his lifetime? How many could he afford to throw away?

In the kitchen, Cameron leaned against the counter, palms flat on its smooth formica surface. She stared down at the coffee maker and concentrated on the burbling dripping sounds it made. She was so familiar with them that she could tell how close it was to being finished just by the sound. A few more quick spurts, and a sigh of steam. She grabbed the pot and poured into two large mugs. One had a small pile of sugar resting on the bottom and the other had a layer of cream. In times of confusion she could still make the perfect cup of coffee.

A shuffling limp alerted her to House's arrival and she turned around with both mugs in her hands and held the sweetened one out to him. For a second it looked like he wasn't going to take it but then he stretched out his arm and nodded his thanks. His eyes were on her face and she was surprised that they weren't wavering.

"This is awkward," he said, breaking his gaze and making his way to one of the kitchen chairs.

"Yeah. Even for us," Cameron agreed with a wry little smile that slid away as she took her first sip of coffee. She maintained her place by the counter, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other tucked close to her chest, the steam from her coffee wafting up to her face. "I slept well," she said. She almost asked him how he'd slept, but she didn't want to hear a self-preserving quip or some shielding innuendo. It was best to stick with what she was feeling.

"Me too," he muttered over the rim of his cup. The words were a surprise even to him, much like his response to her tea that day a lifetime ago.

Cameron moved to the table and sat down, unclenching and releasing a long-held breath.

"I'm going to guess," House said as he watched her relax, "that sometime this morning you were planning on telling me that you just want to take things slow, even though we've already been going at the pace of geriatric snails."

"I think that would be a good idea," she replied, hand tightening around her cup.

"A little probationary time. Make sure old Greg doesn't screw up again," he said with a careless bravado that he wasn't feeling but needed to project in order to stave off the churning in his gut.

"Make sure it's really best for both of us," she corrected him. "And my first test-"

"You don't have AIDS," he interrupted, putting his cup down with enough force to slosh coffee over the rim.

She looked at him with those impossibly large, horribly innocent eyes and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. "I hope not," she said, "but the test is in four weeks. We could try to get back to where we were by then." She took a sip of coffee and then concentrated on the creamy liquid as she swirled it gently. "I've missed you," she said, taking what felt like the biggest chance in years.

House was staring at her down-tilted head, seemingly memorizing each hair. Her words made him drop his gaze to his own coffee. "Yeah. Same here," he said, and it didn't come out nearly as grudgingly as he'd expected.

The weekend was spent half together (but largely silent) and half apart (but continually thinking about one another). Surprisingly, House didn't make an excuse to leave as soon as the coffee was finished. Instead he found an excuse to stay: a football game that he'd miss part of if he had to drive home. Cameron had rolled her eyes, as required, but the warm feeling in her chest was one she hadn't felt in a while.

* * *

They spent the rest of that day watching television, eating and bantering over true-crime and medical mysteries programs. Parting was the only awkward moment of the day. They'd hovered at the door, neither sure of what the new rules were. Cameron had ended up leaning in a bit and House had taken it as an invitation and pulled her in for a kiss that was less passionate than some they'd shared, but deeply satisfying in its own way as it mended cracks and filled in some of the empty spaces.

Sunday was their time for analyzing and second guessing; something which they were both experts at. Half a dozen times, Cameron had the phone in her hand ready to call him. House had nearly as many aborted calls to Wilson. He ended up at the off-track betting station instead which was where he met his - I Foreman's /I - next patient.

Having Foreman calling the shots was not as fun as he'd imagined, but he did get in a good number of insults and it was moderately amusing to sneak around behind his back. It had reminded him of his own residency, constantly getting one over on his supervising doctor. Thinking of ways to make Blackpolean miserable once he returned to commoner status also provided some moments of glee. Sending him to St. Helena probably wasn't in the cards, but loaning him to proctology wasn't out of the question. Brain, ass, same difference.

House also spent some time noticing the subtle changes in Cameron throughout the week.

They didn't speak about the weekend when they saw each other the following Monday, but there was a certain look that passed between them and an expression of strength on Cameron's face. That expression was repeated frequently as she stood by her diagnosis of Munchausen's Syndrome and made comments snarky enough to be worthy of House himself.

They both tried to be nonchalant when Foreman demanded that they pay an illegal visit to their patient's home. Cameron rambled about why she hadn't been put in charge, and House interrupted with his usual sarcasm. Neither of them wanted to talk about more personal matters, even though they were officially outside the hospital walls. They weren't ready. They still needed a bit of a buffer.

At least that was what House thought until they walked into the parking lot and his motorcycle was right there, and Cameron was right there, and suddenly he just wanted them to take off as far and as fast as possible. Cameron's reaction had been one of surprise, but it hadn't lasted long. She'd donned his helmet and climbed on behind him with practiced ease. She'd had more than a few trips since that second date.

And yet she hadn't been sure where to put her hands.

Only House's strong fingers, curling around hers, had let her know what to do. Had loosened another band from around her chest. He hadn't been sure if she'd actually stay there, snug against his back, but he hadn't been able to contain the momentary smile at the feel of her warmth behind him. If he'd looked, he would have seen her smiling too.

Once off the bike, they had both gone back to strict professionalism, except their banter had been looser than before. They'd sat on the bed beside each other without even thinking about it. They'd looked at each other with caring before snapping at each other, and it had removed some of the sting. Neither of them had mentioned to Foreman that the reason they'd taken so long was because they'd ridden back via the longest route possible.

Cameron's feistiness had increased after that little joy-ride, and House smugly took credit for it even as it pissed him off that she was defying him. He had to admit that when her sneaky ploy to get the woman to medicate herself actually worked, he'd felt a sense of pride. Naturally he wouldn't share that with her. He had an image to maintain, after all, and he still thought there was something else wrong and he'd be damned if he didn't find out what it was.

Forty-eight hours later, his suspicion was proven correct. The woman would recover, and platitudes were bandied around about how she could change. House knew then why he'd felt such a connection to her. They both craved attention, and they both manipulated people to get it. The sad part was that the attention they got was never the kind they really needed. They needed to change, unless they wanted to be alone for the rest of their lives, and he wasn't sure if either one of them was capable of it.

He went back to the off-track betting station that night, and drank two scotches while placing a single bet. When he got back to his place, there was a message on his answering machine. Cameron. Just a short message, teasingly congratulating him for his correct diagnosis and claiming half the credit for being right about the Munchausen's. Then her voice grew quieter and she'd said that she hoped he slept well. There was a space of dead air before the sound of her hanging up and he wondered what else she had been thinking of saying. His finger hovered over the button to erase it. Instead he played it one more time and went to bed.

The next morning he started thinking that maybe change was not impossible.


	5. Chapter 4

_Here we are at the end of another story... sad and yet satisfying I think. I hope that you all feel the same. Please let me know if you've enjoyed it... and if you think there are places that can be improved. I'll be working on the Saints and Saviors sequel now, and I hope to have the first chapter posted within the next week or two!_**  
**

**Chapter 4**

Friday, and the end of the first week of Foreman's reign. House reflected that at least it had gone better than Vogler's and Foreman was about to leave for a week's vacation, so that would give him some respite from the annoyance of being bossed around in his own little kingdom. Evidently Foreman hadn't learned anything from Chase's betrayal and subsequent penance.

Chase would be gone for a week as well; travelling back to Australia to visit with friends. House wondered if he would visit his father's grave as well. That left Cameron. The only one who wasn't going home for Christmas; the only one who had volunteered to stay. It was an odd shaped piece in the puzzle that was Allison Cameron. Even with his ego, he knew she wasn't staying for him. She had volunteered so that she would have a convenient excuse not to go. And that was what House found unexpected. He had taunted her about being a stuffed animal from grandma. He hadn't thought that familial references were as uncomfortable for her as they were for him.

He was still thinking and wondering about her when he stepped out of the shower, dripping water all over the floor as usual. With towel wrapped around his waist, he stood in front of his sink, staring at his reflection for just a second before concentrating on squeezing toothpaste onto his brush. While in the shower, his thoughts about Cameron had wandered -- not least of all to what she would look like wet and naked in the shower next to him. Now his thoughts about her had narrowed to one: trying to decide if he should give her the present he'd bought almost a month and a half ago.

Unfortunately it was slightly too large to fit in that incredibly cheesy stocking she'd hung over the coffeemaker, and yes, he'd noticed that she'd hung his right next to hers. He'd scowled the first time he'd seen them, but it had been more from habit than actual contempt -- because inside, a feeling of indulgence had surprised him. It made her happy to decorate, and while that didn't exactly make him happy, it made him happ_ier_.

He remembered, as he ran a comb through his hair, that Cameron hadn't had a Christmas tree at her apartment. The wreath on her door had matched the wreaths on every other door in the building, but inside there had been no decorations. Hell, even he had a pathetic little tree that Wilson had insisted on buying him, and Steve's cage had a giant ribbon wrapped around the base. The knowledge that Cameron -- the woman everyone thought of as a hopeless optimist -- was going to be spending Christmas alone in her undecorated apartment made him feel... uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable, really, but he wouldn't let himself dwell on any other feelings.

He'd give her the damn present.

* * *

The unseasonably warm weather had given way to flurries and an icy wind that blew in from the coast. House buttoned his coat all the way up and reluctantly gave up the idea of riding the bike. He'd have to get it back in Wilson's garage for the rest of the winter.

The Corvette wasn't much more suitable to bad weather, but it kept him out of the wind and he drove to the hospital with Cameron's present on the seat beside him. He was half an hour early. The extra time would give him a chance to smuggle it up to his office without being spotted by Wilson, Cuddy or any of the other hospital gossips. Even taking that precaution, he still felt annoyingly nervous as he rode the elevator to the diagnostics department.

When he got to his familiar glass castle he snorted at his own actions and shoved the present behind his desk before attempting to drown out his irritating "feelings" with loud music and Metroid Prime. He pretended to ignore Cameron when she arrived a few minutes later, and did ignore Chase and Foreman when they drifted in just after eight-thirty. He wandered into the conference room at nine, searching for coffee, and grunted at his employees before retreating to his office again. It was the only interaction he had with them for the entire day.

Cuddy paged him to the clinic at ten and he was stuck there until lunch, treating sore throats, cookie-induced stomach aches and one very clumsy bike-assembly accident. How a screwdriver could pierce a scrotum was something he didn't want to devote too much brainpower to imagining.

Lunchtime brought with it Wilson, and his ever-earnest invitation to a holiday dinner. House declined, but he did manage to get Wilson to pay for his lunch. Of course that was almost a daily occurrence so it didn't really count as anything remarkable. What was remarkable was the fact that Wilson managed to go almost fifteen minutes without mentioning Cameron in a sympathetic tone.

"I noticed she's on the board for clinic duty next week," he said, while staring at his sandwich. It never paid to look House straight in the eye for these types of conversations. "I suppose the two of you could--"

"No. We couldn't," House interrupted.

"You never talked to her," Wilson surmised, and there was that pitying look. "But I haven't seen you trailing after Stacy either."

"Well aren't you just the Sherlock Holmes of Princeton," House scoffed lightly. "As a matter of fact, you're wrong."

Wilson looked slightly confused. He was sure he would have noticed House obsessing over his ex. Oh. That wasn't what he was wrong about. His eyes took on that interested look that was often seen in Cameron's gaze.

"So you did talk?"

"Yeah," House muttered around a giant mouthful of pastrami.

"And?"

"And you're the nosiest man I've ever met."

Wilson had the self-control to keep his laughter subdued. "Me? I'm not the one who stole my ex-lover's medical records!"

"Whatever," House replied with a careless roll of his eye and a childish expression.

"C'mon. You've gotta tell me."

House looked at that serious and concerned face and let out a much-put-upon sigh. "Fine. We talked and things might be getting better."

"Then why not spend Christmas together?"

"We're not the celebrating type," House said, again taking a bite of sandwich at the same time.

"Cameron? Not the celebrating type? She's practically got the office smothered in decorations. I can't imagine what her apartment must look like."

House swallowed and then fixed his gaze on Wilson. "Not like the office."

"Oh." Wilson was back to looking confused, but he pushed it aside. "Still--"

"Maybe," House finally relented, more to get Wilson onto another topic than because he actually thought he and Cameron would see each other on Christmas.

"At least give it some thought," was Wilson's last statement on the subject, and then he started talking about the possibility of getting together New Year's day for the football game.

* * *

Chase had to catch his plane and left the office at two. Foreman left shortly before four. He was driving but he wanted to try to beat the traffic. That left only Cameron and House in the office, separated by a wall of glass. When Cuddy called her down to clear up some paperwork, House took his chance and limped through the connecting door with package in hand. He settled it on her chair and looked at it for a second. Two years in a row. A new tradition.

He pivoted around and noticed the stockings again. All empty. And she hadn't stopped by with any gold-wrapped boxes either. He almost turned and snatched the gift back, the words 'sentimental fool' echoing in his head. But that would only prove that he cared whether or not she got him something. And he didn't. Definitely not. He was giving her something because he'd bought it so long ago that it was no longer returnable. That was the only reason. He stalked back to his office, grabbed his coat and keys and headed out.

The childish petulance had nearly subsided by the time he unlocked his car and found the green be-ribboned present sitting on the leather seat.

It only took him a few seconds to remember that brief period that afternoon when he'd wondered where his keys were. He'd paced into the conference room looking for them and found them next to the coffee maker. He hadn't remembered putting them there, but he'd also taken two vicodin shortly after arriving, so a memory lapse had certainly been possible.

Apparently he needed to send Cameron on all the breaking and entering missions.

He shifted the package over to the passenger seat and got in. Normally he would have torn it open right then, like an impatient kid. This time he wasn't so eager for the gratification of knowing what was inside the box. Just possessing it was enough.

* * *

Amber and gold melted and curled together, pulling upwards and sending sparks drifting off, fading as they grew further from the nurturing fire. The ever-changing pattern of the flames held House mesmerized, ignoring even the scotch swirling in his glass. Every so often he would remember it and take a sip before staring into the fire again.

Next to him on the dark leather sofa was Cameron's gift to him, unwrapped and open, with ribbon trailing onto the floor and paper torn haphazardly. The plain white box had contained three things: a box of cigars identical to the ones she'd given him last Christmas, a bottle of Glenlivet which he had opened and was currently drinking, and a scale model of Gravedigger with two all-access passes for the St. Patrick's Day monster truck rally tucked in the truck bed. Apparently she also knew a guy who knew a guy.

House took another sip of scotch and then reached over and lifted the truck from its nest of tissue paper. He held it in his hand, looking at all the details and remembering the last time he'd seen it in person. He remembered how Cameron had looked with a backdrop of colored lights from the cotton candy stand, and the way she'd cheered like a little kid. He'd spent a lot of time and scotch trying to obliterate those memories the following weekend. Now he was glad he'd been unsuccessful.

His glass was just touching his lower lip when the phone rang. He lowered his hand and listened as the machine picked it up on the second ring. His own voice echoed slightly in the large room, and the annoyingly long beep that followed bounced off wood and wall and window.

"Hi," came a somewhat tentative voice. "It's me… obviously… I guess you're out. I just wanted to thank you--"

House picked up before she could say anymore.

"I'm here."

"Ah," she said, with that breathy voice she sometimes got when she was nervous. "Screening your calls?" she continued with more resolve.

"Can't be too careful."

"True. I might have been some telemarketer and then you would have had to waste precious sarcasm getting rid of me."

He couldn't see it, but he knew there was the shadow of a smile on Cameron's face.

"So, you got it then," House switched gears, going back to her original reason for calling.

"Yes," she replied and then paused before going on. "I guess this means you're expecting me to be a regular passenger?"

"Well the bike is twice as cool when I've got a hot chick riding bitch," House said matter-of-factly.

"That so, eh?"

"Yeah, and then there's that whole brain-safety issue to keep in mind."

A quiet little laugh reached House's ears and he smirked. He liked being responsible for that sound.

"I like the color," she told him. "I suppose you only picked it so the blood wouldn't be as noticeable if we crash," she joked.

"Red looks good on you," was his response, and it was said so simply that Cameron was momentarily taken aback.

"Did you… did you get your present?" she asked when speech returned.

"Oh, that was you?" he answered. "Here I was thinking that someone took the 'vette for a joyride and left a very girly looking package as payment."

"Ha, ha," she said, and again he could tell she was smirking at him over the phone line.

He wondered if she would ask him if he liked it, and when she stayed silent, save for the sound of her breathing, he had his answer. As usual, she pushed him right up to the edge, but never over it. She always waited for him to take that last step himself.

"I'm drinking the scotch right now."

He could just barely hear her little sigh of relief.

"Good?"

"Very. My carjacker has good taste."

"Glad you're enjoying it."

"It seems she's also getting paid too much," he said a minute later, after rolling the words around in his mouth and debating whether or not to let them out. "Those tickets don't come cheap."

"Well, fiberglass composite Syncrotec helmets aren't exactly on the discount rack at Wal-mart."

"Nothing but the best for you, dear," he said in that casually sarcastic tone of voice he was known for, yet beneath it was a thin thread of truth that he would deny if questioned about.

Cameron seemed to be letting his words settle and when she spoke again it was soft but hopeful; something House hadn't heard from her in a while.

"Also, I was sort of thinking that I'd be using that extra ticket."

"Oh you were, were you?"

"I know what monster trucks are now," she replied, "and I kinda like them."

"I should have known. Once is never enough."

"Unless you want to take Wilson. I mean, he missed it last time…" Cameron trailed off, unexpectedly backpedaling.

House refrained from telling her that Wilson had missed the last rally because he was out with Stacy. "He can buy his own damn ticket," he said instead, knowing that Cameron would be smiling at his words.

"It's a few months away," she said, not quite hesitatingly, but giving him an out if he wanted it. "A lot could happen."

"Not enough for me to let Wilson ride bitch," House said flippantly. He wanted to move away from talk of the distant future, and humor was the best distraction.

Cameron laughed and then quieted, her gentle breathing almost tickling House's ear although she was miles away.

"Well, I should let you go. I just wanted to thank you."

"I have a tree," House said abruptly.

"Excuse me?"

"A tree. With lights. Colored balls. You've seen the type. I've got one here and it's going to waste."

Cameron's response, when it came, was one of puzzlement. "How can it be going to waste?"

"Well obviously I'm not appreciating it. It takes a woman to really do that. You could come over." His words were clipped and almost rushed and he realized almost immediately that he sounded exactly the same as he had when he'd invited her to that first truck rally.

"Now?"

"Sure. Or Christmas. Or both."

"It's kind of late tonight--"

"Right. Right. Just forget it."

"No!" she said quickly. "I just meant that maybe I could come over tomorrow… Christmas Eve and all that. I could cook. Maybe…"

"Maybe spend the night."

"Maybe."

"I can cook too," House volunteered, defusing the question of sleeping arrangements. "Once a man hits thirty-five, Kraft macaroni and cheese seven nights a week looses its appeal."

"I can imagine," she said with a light chuckle.

When silence fell again, she was the one to break it.

"So. Tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"I'll call before I come over."

"Sounds good," he said, echoing words from long ago.

Cameron quiet again, only her breathing letting him know she was still there.

"Merry Christmas, Greg," she said at last, because although she'd get the chance to say those words in just forty-eight hours, she just didn't want to hang up without saying his name.

"Merry Christmas, Allison," he surprised her and himself by responding in kind in a voice that could almost be called gentle.

He held onto the phone until he heard her hang up and then he set it gently on the side table next to his glass. The honey-colored liquid caught the reflection of the fire and seemed to glow. Picking it up, he looked at it, at the flames, and at the little model truck. He was actually looking forward to Christmas.


End file.
